"Something’s happened to the light
beneath the door-cracks on the living room floor.
Oh yes, it’s changed- it’s faded so that no
one speck remains surrounded by another.
It’s gathered and flickering but lingering still.
A tiny ball of energy on the carpet.
There is exists no solution for the island dot.
If it is too flat in the circles, in the darkness,
then no other dot will seem to have existed.
So there is no loss.
So there is no island - only water.
And there is no ocean if no land exists.
And there is no island of light
that doesn’t wish it could be absorbed
by the depth of the room.
There is, somewhere, a room of light
where other specks make up the bright ocean.
But there is no finding the second ocean
without drowning in the first.
Drowning in light.
and letting go.”
Worm, immersed in Home of dirt, was a lovely, writhing victim of perfect design. All that made Worm up was beauty. Home was gritty – Worm was smooth for squirming through it, Home was dark – Worm was free of lust for vision. Worm was whole.
I am the end of Worm who was The End of Worm. I consumed and became Worm. I was birthed not out of, but from within Worm, that Lovely Writhing Mass. To the best of Worm’s short ability to remember, Home was all worm had ever felt against the lanky, slime of Worm’s own flesh.
Then Worm struck glory.
Glory was a warm, wet, corpse of sweet, decomposing ooze. Thought-muscles no longer sent signals of raccoon-instinct to the rest of raccoon-insides. Oh – what glory was the contrast to Home; gritted, granulated, glass – sweet Glory was such a pleasant piece of pulp to crawl through by Hero, Worm. Blood, long taken by the sun, muscles almost completely wept into Home, the earth. Glory rotted in the humidity’s heated embrace. What remained for Hero Worm to writhe through was soft hair and brittle bone, which slowly sinking Homewards.
With every pulse of body, Worm felt delight surge. Five hearts pumped double-pace to keep up with the joy of squirming through seeping Glory. As worm felt, “thump” against the raccoon-spine the crispy structure split, spilling some sweet poison, the source of raccoon-death. The Death-Source poured out on and into thin-skinned Hero Worm.
Then time slowed. Worm lost all presence. Worm left Worm’s own living body – Worm gasped in Glory’s flesh and knew how to un-cap self! Worm found where Worm ended, and started to devour this end the way Home had been devoured and the way Glory had shortly been devoured. Then the open end of Worm bled ooze of self into the ooze of Glory. Within a timeless lapse, cells regenerated and from the oozing end of Worm was “I” created.
Now Worm was “We” and “We” were Worm – two-headed, with two mouth-ports, “We” felt the weight of poison’s guidance. No longer did We, Worm, have knowledge of up or down – only Time, only movement. Oh movement! Every movement was as close as We, Worm could come to an understanding of love; as Worm is such a victim of perfect design who does not need two – but only one for making more. Movement was love – was feeling and therefore, love. Love: a something that Pre-Poison Worm had no, no, no, concept of, was now known, but only understood, in movement.
Then, “I”, as the second head of Worm, became so full of love for movement and for the self, that I was passion-forced to engulf my first head. Oh but unlike previous devouring done by Worm’s first head, when Worm’s End was uncapped – I became stuck. Rather, first self of Worm became stuck within me! Thus the Me was born and thus, I, now the only Worm, was in and outside of self. No longer Worm but lovely, writhing, Circle, victim of perfect design. Worm was whole.
A thousand thousand
is how many dollars
I’d get if a friend of mine
were to win the lottery.
So much money that I could
buy what ails me a summer home in Vermont.
Even though I’ve never been to
I don’t really know if it’s nice in the summertime -
but it’s got to have less brutal heat than here.
And what ails me could sure use a vacation
'cause it's ailing me all the time.